


Twenty-four

by coffeehousehaunt



Series: Aftermath [1]
Category: Lost Girl
Genre: (mostly), And ignores the train wreck that was S5, Angst, Fix-It, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Immediately post-S4, Kenzi - Freeform, Kenzi's death, Mentions of Major Character Death, Mind Games, Multi, POV: Lauren, Starts out canon-compliant with S4, The Dark Archives, This is not a ship-centric fic people, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 22:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7240558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeehousehaunt/pseuds/coffeehousehaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first twenty-four hours after Kenzi's death. </p><p>Or, Lauren <i>had</i> a plan, but then it went to shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In case you didn't see it in the tags above, _this is not a ship-centric fic_. For any ship. At all. Relationships happen and character dynamics are dealt with, but there's no "endgame" ship, and the ships aren't the point. So, if you came here looking for a particular ship, I can't guarantee you'll be happy with this (lol as if that's a guarantee for any fic, even the shippy ones). There'll be smut in this series, because hello, _Lost Girl_ , but romance is not the driving force in this one. 
> 
> This piece is already written; just putting the finishing touches on the last chapters. I'll try to post at least once a week, and more frequently, if my life cooperates.

If it had been Bo, she could’ve done it. Not answered the phone, that is. She’d had her fill; that long moment, watching her walk away, long hair swinging over the curve of her ass, the black-on-black of the leather. _Get out of here, succubus. Destiny’s calling._ Drank up the set of her shoulders and the lift of her chin and the way she moves when she knows the people she loves are right there with her. 

Drank up the sight of her before she knew Lauren was leaving. Beautiful and pure and sharper than the knife strapped to her back, with Lauren’s mark around her neck. Bottled it up and tucked it away for some long night on the road. _Get out of here._ Away from this. 

If it had been Bo, she could’ve left anyways. She’d been preparing to. Another broken heart, another string of lies. Another unanswered phone call. But Bo would be safe; safer, at least. She let herself look at the phone when it buzzed; couldn’t _not_ , really. Isn't that how these stories always go? 

It was Dyson’s number. 

Maybe it was competitiveness; maybe it was because if she didn’t, he’d _know_ something was wrong, and then her whole plan would be blown to shit. Can’t have your friends or friendly rivals or ex-rivals or whatever they are now ruining your secret getaway. Can’t have them chasing after you to protect you, or secrets to be charmed or tortured out of people. Can’t have collateral damage waiting to happen. And since when did they become each others’ first call, anyways? 

“Dyson?” 

“ _Lauren._ ” And her stomach drops; his voice is ragged, is thick and hollow all at once, and he sounds like something’s been ripped out of him. He breaks off, and his breathing sounds almost painful. 

“Dyson, what is it?” Evony can hear her voice break slightly, and she wouldn’t have allowed it two minutes ago, but she doesn’t care now, because in her head, that dark hair’s gone still and she’s walking away, away. 

“ _Lauren. We made it. But—_ “ He starts again, and his voice is definitely thick, crying-thick, and her hand is about to crush the phone. “ _—But Kenzi_ —” His voice fails again. 

“Kenzi?” There’s the rush of relief, then the guilt, and then it doesn’t make sense. “ _Kenzi?_ ” 

Silence. Finally, he chokes out, “ _We’re a mess, Doc._ ” 

Crystal. 

Crystal is waiting for her. Halfway across town; Crystal, and freedom. _Her_ freedom. Her choice. 

“The shack.” She hears herself say. 

She can almost see him swallow and nod. “ _The shack._ ” He sounds relieved that he doesn’t have to say more. “ _See you there._ ” 

She hangs up and looks at the phone. “We have to go.” She says numbly. 

It’s a vaguely uncomfortable feeling; like their positions are reversed, like Evony’s studying Lauren, like Lauren is the subject. 

But she can’t, right now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Earlier:**

"Now I know what all the fuss is about." Evony says while Lauren examines her. She's fine; actually, she's in close to perfect health, which is impressive after the strain their fight with Massimo must've put on her earlier. "That was all kinds of hot." 

"A little late to the party?" Lauren mutters, because Evony's trying to get under her skin, and it's not working. Really. It’s not. 

"Hm. I guess you could say my priorities have shifted a little. For the moment. It's a nice break from my responsibilities." 

"Break?” Lauren can hear herself say, “You do realize I didn’t design this to be reversible, don’t you?” 

“No; I figured you were going to tag me and then release me back into the wild. God, did you pretend to have a sense of _humor_ , too?”

“Yeah, systematic enslavement and blackmail is _hilarious_.”

“Oh, sorry—I thought we were still discussing your needle technique.”

Lauren drops back around and bends down, getting right up in Evony’s face, bending down over her, the hot thrill of her position sharpening when Evony tries to lean back, nostrils flaring slightly. But there’s nowhere to run.

“I don’t think you get how this works now, Evony. I don’t have to be _fun_ for you anymore. Or entertaining. Hell, it doesn’t even matter if _you’re_ interesting.

“I’ve gathered my data from you, Evony. I’ve run my tests. You’re irrelevant. As inert as everything else in here. Your usefulness to me is proportionate to the threat you pose—which is to say, none. Banter on that.”

Evony doesn’t seem to have a comeback for that. Lauren pulls back and resumes taking Evony’s vitals.

She’s silent for a lot longer than Lauren was expecting. Did she hurt Evony’s feelings? Why on earth should she care if she did?

Lauren’s phone vibrates on the table, and she snatches it up, ready to throw it, ready to be done with this conversation and on her way out

It’s Dyson’s number. 

//

Crystal doesn’t pick up. 

_“Hey, it’s Cryss—_ “ Lauren can hear her swallow the slight drawl in her voice, voice pitching up and into a tension that could easily be mistaken for the pace of the city. Lauren’s chest aches. “ _—Sorry I couldn’t answer the phone right now. Just leave a message and I’ll get back to you ASAP!_ ” 

“Hey, It’s Karen,” The name sounds so foreign to her, now; but then, isn’t Karen the reason why she had to take the job that landed her in the Congo in the first place? “Just wanted to let you know that I’m gonna be late for dinner. Wanna go for dessert instead?  I’m really sorry, I’ll make it up to you. Just—“ _Tell me you’re alive._ “—Let me know, okay?” She taps the red button on her phone’s screen again, an uncomfortable sick feeling in her guts. 

Then she remembers _why_ plans changed, and she feels dizzy. 

“Bo doesn’t know, does she?” Evony says; first words since before Dyson’s call. Her smirk is audible. Lauren has the brief urge to knock it off her face.

Instead, she shoves the phone in her pocket and turns toward the door—not the one Bo came through, the one that leads back up to the surface directly through the Halls of the Hunt and the dozens of heavily-armed, battle-tested Fae soldiers who are no doubt on alert after Evony’s disappearance—and can sense humans from miles away.  

Humans can’t cross the wards to the surface without permission from a Dark Fae. At least, not the wards located in the Halls.

She’s practically through the door to the lower levels when she half-turns—but not far enough to give the impression of _effort_.

“Coming?” She says, and damn Evony for the crackle of power in her guts.

/ /

  
Massimo didn’t need permission to cross the wards, at the end. Or at least, Lauren would bet he didn’t. But old habits die hard, or maybe he was already too far gone to remember that last insult to the Dark Fae, because he dragged her down here through—  
  
Actually, he dragged her _up_. From beneath.  
  
The Archives spiderweb beneath the city—hell, they might actually _be_ a city in their own right. On and on and down and up and down again. There’s dozens of hidden exits to the surface.  
  
This part of the Archives is nothing like the place where overheard Trick and Evony discussing whether or not they should—how did Trick put it?—put Bo down. That place was well-lit. This one—  
  
Shelves and shelves of documents and artifacts; in floor-to-ceiling stacks like a library, but this is really more of a treasure store. Every single one probably enough to send the scientific community reeling for decades. Down every row, up the aisles, there’s a faint air current, cool and dry against her skin, like something huge breathing.  
  
The stacks are always deserted. Lauren’s never seen a single other soul this far down. She’s sure they’ve been here; she just isn’t sure they ever left.  
  
It’s easy to get distracted by the stacks—things glitter, gleam; books and parchment lean or lie against each other, covered in languages that even Lauren hasn’t heard of before, in all her studies of the Fae. She supposes that’s why those particular items are there.  
  
Lauren’s counting the tiles.  
  
She let herself get distracted, once; she could’ve sworn she only went one stack deep off the path, but when she turned around, the walkway was gone—She was in another room entirely. It took her three hours to find her route again. And that was _before_ she betrayed Evony.  
  
So she doesn’t spare a glance at the stacks. The clench in her stomach wouldn’t let her, anyways. Millennia pass by in her peripheral vision.  
  
“You’ve been here before.”  
  
The room is huge; the ceiling’s lost in shadows. Evony’s voice should be lost in the vault of it and muffled by the books. But her voice cuts through the air like it bows to her. More accusation than question.  
  
“If you’re trying to make me lose count and get us lost, keep talking.” It occurs to Lauren that Evony may well know the way out. These are her archives, after all. Were. “And these _are_ the Dark Archives. Full access, 24/7? You kinda gave that to me.”  
  
Evony snorts.  
  
“What’s so funny?” On second thought, maybe she doesn’t care.  
  
“I’m assuming you’re going to leave me with Bo while you ride off into the sunset with that pretty blonde thing—“  
  
“ _Crystal_.” _Her_ voice cuts sharp, now, too. “Her name’s Crystal. And I think it’s safe to assume I’m _not_ leaving you here with Massimo’s corpse.” _Not that it wouldn’t be fitting._ If there’s anyone responsible for the thing back there lying in a pool of its own blood, it’s Evony.  
  
“You’re so _gallant_.” Then again… “What would _Bo_ think of that? Leaving one of your conquests with her like a broken bird while you run away with your _other_ lover?”  
  
“You hardly count.” Lauren mutters, just loud enough that her voice carries.  
  
“You think? She’s so sensitive. Might feel left out. After all, she hasn’t seen that snatch since Tamsin’s… blooding.” There’s a suggestive lilt to her voice that makes Lauren’s skin crawl when she remembers Tamsin not two days after that party, legs hanging off the exam table, kicking absently while Lauren tried to examine her back.  
  
“Don’t think you’re her type.”  
  
“What, human?” Evony laughs. “She has a reputation back in the _Old World_ for her soft spot for mortals. All I’d have to do is bat my eyelashes and say _help_ and she’d probably welcome me with open legs.”  
  
Lauren rounds on her, raising her hand so that the flashlight from her phone shines straight into Evony’s face; watches her flinch and raise her hands to shield her eyes. It takes a moment for the red to clear from her vision and her mouth to find the words. “Funny. She had the opportunity, but from the pictures I saw? Looks like she wasn’t interested.”  
  
Murder flashes in Evony’s eyes, but she smiles, wolfish, gleaming in the cold while light. “You’re right. She’s more into redemption. Maybe I should beg for forgiveness.” Pause. “Is that Bo’s thing? Begging?”  
  
Lauren grinds her teeth. “Y’know, I could just knock you out and drag you back to Massimo.”  
  
That shuts Evony up; although, Lauren can practically hear her smirking behind her as they move deeper into the stacks.  
  
//  
  
“I’m assuming you know a way out.” Lauren’s voice echoes as the dark swallows them.  
  
“Why should I?”  
  
“These are _your_ Archives?”  
  
“And yet, as you so intelligently pointed out earlier, I’m only human now.”  
  
Lauren rounds on Evony again. The effect seems to work less and less each time, but Evony still flinches and stops walking. “Bullshit.”  
  
“I can assure you if I still had _any_ powers left, you’d be a steaming puddle of goo on my floor.”  
  
“I’ve found dozens of exits out of here. To the surface. And I haven’t been disguising myself as Fae. Do better.”  
  
“’Do better?’” Evony mocks, and laughs. “You _told_ me to come with you.”  
  
“And yet, not even a thank-you.”  
  
“For what, making me into _this_?”  
  
“You do realize, after all the times you’ve tried to kill us, even most humans would have found it well within my rights to leave you in a puddle of Massimo’s blood, right?”  
  
“I know,” Evony’s voice drips mockery, “And yet Bo gives you a look at that ass in last year’s leather pants and you go tripping over yourself to find whatever morals you have left.”  
  
This time, Lauren shoves Evony up against the end of one of the stacks.  
  
“That’s. My. Girlfriend.” Lauren growls, regretting the whole thing instantly. Still, she holds the phone there, shining it in Evony’s face, pinning her back against the wood.  
  
This time, Evony doesn’t flinch. Just hums and nods as if in understanding. “Which is why you’re bringing your side piece to her house and then running off with your latest lost cause.”  
  
Lauren’s jaw clenches. Evony pushes off from the stack, brushes past Lauren, and Lauren lets her. Can’t find the backbone to stop her.  
  
Or maybe it’s because if Lauren tried to stop her, she wouldn’t be able to stop _herself_ until Evony was a paste on the floor of the Archives.  
  
Finally, she turns, mechanically—  
  
And stops cold.  
  
The path Lauren’s familiar with leads down aisles that—at least appear to be—demarcated by clans, or families; and within that, by dates (at least for the last century or two). The aisles through the stacks are broad, and branching, and lead (eventually) to what strongly reminds Lauren of the tunnels immediately behind the fortifications of a castle, or old forts.  
  
Or—after some research—burial mounds. The larger, better-constructed ones.  
  
Instead of that, though, she finds herself facing a wall; well, more accurately, a set of doors, carved into a wall that stretches away into the darkness above them. Above each door, there’s a banner; none of them are familiar.  
  
“Well I’ll be damned.” Evony says, something softening her voice. Something like… awe?  
  
_That’s one way to put it._  
  
Lauren looks back behind them again. The corridor from before is gone; the banners and dates on the stacks are all different; completely unfamiliar.  
  
They’re lost.


	3. Chapter 3

“You were _saying_ you didn’t know a way out?” Seems like the only appropriate response to Evony’s reaction to the doors.

“Oh, I never said _that_.” Lauren’s blood turns to steam. Evony gestures at the floor in front of them. “But I’m willing to bet the layout has changed somewhat.”

“The tiles.” Lauren murmurs aloud, because they gleam like they were laid yesterday. Evony says nothing.

The tiles are _pristine_ —pristine, while the rest of the archives is covered with such a thick layer of dust that Lauren takes an antihistamine before coming down here, and she’s not even allergic. The banners are rich, like they were just hung, and even the wood at the end of the stacks gleams.

When she looks back, she can see exactly where the path she’s familiar with ends, and the new—old?—tiles take over.

She thinks of the ink of Rainer’s portrait in the books higher up in the Archives, smearing wet on her fingers.

“All of them.” Lauren murmurs. “All of them were written out of history by the Blood King?”

Evony shoots her a disdainful look. “Do I _look_ like an interpreter?”

Lauren rolls her eyes.

//

Lauren looks over _everything_. But, when it comes down to it, there’s no way to tell—how the path ahead of them or behind them has changed. It certainly was nothing like this before.

She checks each of the individual rooms with her cell phone; some are lit, and as pristine as the tiles on the floor outside. Some are a little dingy, the same wear and tear as the path she’s familiar with. She even recognizes one.

Two are completely dark. A quick check with the flashlight function on her phone reveals rooms that look like they’ve been ransacked and stripped bare.

She’s been pacing for all of five minutes before she hears muttering behind her. She turns to see Evony mouthing something to herself, index finger on one hand hopping over the doors.

Lauren can feel her brow furrow in disbelief. “Are you playing eenie-meenie-minie-mo?”

“One of us has to make a decision before we die of dehydration.”

“You do know that would take three days, right?”

“Time is a relative thing, in the Archives.”

“Time is always relative.” Really? _That's_ the best she could come up with?

“D’you have a better theory, Einstein?”

“The air currents in the Archives—”

“That one.” Evony interrupts, pointing at a door with banner over it depicting some kind of Celtic-looking knotwork that’s both eerily familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The doorway is dark.

Of course. She couldn’t have picked one of the lit ones.

Evony reaches up and un-racks one of the torches mounted to the wall—with surprising ease, considering how much of it is metal. The muscles in her shoulders and arms shift, highlighted by the fire. Lauren wonders how much residual strength she still possesses; she wouldn’t have pegged Evony for the torch-wielding type, as a human.

Still, with dark hair spilling down her back, that damn black dress with its fucking straps _framing_ the muscles in her upper back and shoulders, fire dancing over the dark waves of her hair and the liquid-shadow lines of her skin, she almost doesn’t look human anymore. Even facing away. She looks like a damn statue.

Lauren grits her teeth and follows. 

//

The room is dusty. Large, and bare. It’s similar in construction to most of the other rooms; it’s clear that it held something important, and it has rows of shelves, a raised area to one side, and even a banner—

But the banner’s crumpled on the floor, disfigured beyond recognition; the shelves are broken and, mostly, empty. Anything that might have value looks to have been taken.

“I’m not familiar with any of the crests on these doors.” Lauren says, not quite a question. After a moment, Evony’s gaze flickers over to her, and her lip curls slightly; there’s a straightness to her shoulders and a sureness to her stance that Lauren hasn’t seen from her since…

Well.

Amusement and dismissal—contempt?—flicker darkly in her eyes. “The lineage of the Dark is not the business of humans.” She tones, low and amused. “I could have you killed just for asking.”

Lauren rolls her eyes. “Could have _had_ me killed.” She corrects, turning and walking towards the doors. She can’t help the smirk. “Could have had.”

She turns in a circle, looking over the ruined room. “Fire and sword, am I right?”

Evony raises an eyebrow impassively.

Lauren continues. “A family stripped of its titles—usually with the premise of committing treason against a lord they owed fealty to, but it was usually a matter of who seized power first. They,” She indicates the room around them with her finger, “Lost.

“They forfeited not only their titles but their place in society. And in any territory that didn’t want to find itself at war with the family they committed their crimes against.

“They were fair game for slave traders. Criminals. _Humans_. Couldn’t hold any office or titles, even if they’d held them before.”

“Their family’s place of power will have been ransacked.” Evony finishes. “Over time, any defenses their ancestral stores may have had, will have waned in power. This way will be unguarded.” She pauses. “Relatively. There’s still the catacombs.”

Lauren’s eyes narrow. “But then this—“ She struggles for words.

“The _Archives_ , Lauren. They move beyond space and time as you’re familiar with them. Humans aren’t just _unwelcome_ here. They _can’t_ be here. _Neither_ of us should even be standing here.”

“Then how—“

“How, indeed.” Evony steps closer. “I gave you a key card. I don’t recall giving you an all-access pass to our collective history.” Abruptly, she shrugs. “I’m not going to question it too hard, though.”

A chill runs down Lauren’s spine. “I don’t know.” She says, voice a little weak. “I just thought it was all underground.” _Consciously_ , maybe; but this—this doesn’t surprise her. Not in the least.

Evony looks around. A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “You’re extraordinarily lucky.”

Something tells her Evony doesn’t just mean she’s lucky she found this place.

//

“Where does this _lead_ , then—?” Lauren asks as Evony leads them back--always further back. Then she spies the stairs.

Leading downwards. Of course. 

“I’m neither obligated nor interested in telling you.”

“Evony—“

“What was it you said earlier? Something about being irrelevant? You could leave me with Massimo? I can leave _you_ here, Lauren. With the restless, desecrated dead.”

“Yeah?” Lauren retorts, voice brittle. “I’d like to see how long you last. This place won’t be any friendlier to you.”

“No. But I’d give myself better odds than _you_.”

“You want to? Go on.” Lauren says, gesturing down the stairs.

Evony tilts her head, impassive and challenging, jaw set like stone. She turns and moves down the stairs. Shadow and flame. Lauren follows.

Lauren snorts when they get to the bottom. “Of course. It’s a straight shot.”

“Don’t be so sure, Lewis.” Evony’s voice floats from up ahead. She gestures with the torch. Lauren looks where she’s indicating, and swears.

“There are many paths through the land of the dead,” Evony says, like she’s reciting something from memory, and Lauren feels a chill, something strange— _Fae_ —drawn out of the stone—is it stone, really?—around them. She understands why they named her the Morrigan. Let her stand and call their Elders to order.

Even if it’s only theatrics. Lauren shakes herself.

“Only the blessed may leave.”

Evony turns to face her, eyes sparks dancing on obsidian; fire blazing on oil. Wild.

“Your move, Doctor.”

//


	4. Chapter 4

In hindsight, telling Evony off before walking into an extraplanar Fae mausoleum may not have been the best idea. 

For starters, her phone’s flashlight function might be _rated_ brighter than an open flame, but the cold white light doesn’t exactly have the same effect that a torch would. 

Everything is clinical and frozen, and while that sounds _familiar_ , it makes it difficult—when your coping mechanism is to try to understand just who this mystery family is—when even the _light_ you’re using reminds you that, indeed, they’re dead. And you don’t belong here. 

“Get used to it.” Lauren mutters through her teeth at the imaginary spectres crowding in from the walls. _Get in line._

The Fae weren’t even the first (or third, or fifth, or tenth for that matter) to tell her _that_. 

Okay. She smoothes her hands down her thighs and shakes out the tension. Okay, the best way out of here is to—

Of course. Evony’s little speech earlier. Was a riddle. She clearly was familiar with whatever clan this was. 

Just who are their hosts in the Otherworld? 

Lauren studies the carvings on the walls, strange and stark in the light from her phone. Nothing is defaced here; nothing appears broken, or ransacked. Compared to above, it’s positively pristine. What kept them from disturbing _here_? 

She’s not one for superstition, but she remembers the Fae burial ground. 

A chill crawls down her spine. 

The carvings are ornate, flowing—starting in the main entry. Covering everything—the walls, the ceiling. 

They may have even been drawn into the floor. Although the packed dirt’s gradually lost the shape with age, she can see designs, but they’re too faint to make out clearly. On the walls, though, and the ceiling—

On the ceiling above her head, there’s a scene of a kneeling figure—Lauren can’t make out if they’re male or female or something else entirely—and another figure swinging some kind of hammer or axe at their head. The kneeling figure’s head is split open, and a figure entirely of flame is spilling out, the whole being in one tongue. It’s immensely detailed, and downright grotesque, in some ways—the folds of the brain are detailed, even; Lauren realizes they look quite similar to the braiding of the knotwork. The eyes of the split face are open, and it looks like the same fire is pouring out of them. 

Lauren follows the painting down the walls. There are figures at the entry of each hallway branching off. After that, they become more familiar—scenes from the life of that figure, always marked in some way by the symbol on the banner. _Oh._

It’s their history. She looks up at the ceiling again, to the figure. Their mythology. Origin. Then this would… 

Which one is the head of their line? 

There’s any number of myths. She supposes it looks the most like the birth of Athena, but… “Fire in the head.” Lauren murmurs. There are differences. 

She shakes her head. How is this helping her get out? As fascinating as it is. As *important*. 

_Only the blessed may leave._

That makes no sense, in the context of the myths she’s learned— _blessing_ should be required to _enter_ the Otherworld. 

And once there, the “blessing” of the Fae can be… ambiguously beneficial. So the connotation of “favor” doesn’t sound right—especially since the favored humans, prized possessions, might be buried _with_ their Fae masters. No exit for the favored. 

Although, she supposes, that’s exclusively in a human context. And “blessed”… 

Permitted? 

Lauren swears internally. That would explain why the raiders didn’t come through here. No one to let them out. 

And Evony led them right into it. 

On the other hand, it’s heartening—“There are many paths through the land of the dead”. And—if her guess about the way out is correct—what need would there be for internal defenses? Any intruders would be trapped in here with the dead. 

So, the straight shot should do. She can worry about _finding_ the way out first, and then using it after. 

Forward it is. 

// 

These tunnels go a _long way_. 

Lauren’s been walking for what feels like hours, now—although according to her phone, it’s been maybe a quarter of a mile. Tops. 

Even for the Otherworld, that seems pretty impressive. 

There are what seem like endless branches; she keeps scanning them for one she recognizes. To be completely honest, though, none of these seem even remotely familiar. 

How they dress changes, over the years. Gradually, it becomes a little more familiar, a little more—

Celtic. Of course. 

And the lines of the knotwork resolve into a pattern, something repetitious, almost like a script. She wonders if it is, when the ornamentation starts to appear. It looks more and more like the straight line-slash script of ogham or cuneiform, but it never loses the curve and the weaving of it all. 

It’s gorgeous, she has to admit. Or it would be, if she wasn’t straining past the edge of the light from her phone for an end to this tunnel. If her ears weren’t straining for any sound other than the scuff of her own feet, the hammer of her own heart. She’s already made herself jump twice, mistaking the sound of her own footsteps for something else. 

Although that guarantees nothing. 

Still, the whole “blessing” parameter is a nice touch—do you really need internal safeguards, when anyone unwelcome will eventually join the dead? 

A chill goes down her spine. Why use any internal protections if the dead can protect themselves? This is their place, after all. 

All of a sudden, this is a lot less fun. 

She remembers the Fae burial ground—if that was outside the Otherworld, then what would be here? How does this even _work_? 

To be fair, it could be worse—this could’ve been a Latin Fae. 

Yeah. Much worse. The most Lauren remembers about the Celtic Otherworld is the feasting. 

So… By all rights, there might be a feasthall here? 

There are a number of converging tunnels; she may just be on the right track. 

Almost like it heard her, the shape of a doorway appears—the ceiling dropping away from her light, and the walls disappearing, presumably where they open into a larger room. A chill shivers down her spine. 

There are a set of tunnels that converge on the door. Looks like this may well be the exit. 

It _seems_ too simple, until she realizes—it is. There’s no one to grant them permission to leave, if this is the way to the exit. 

The way ahead is as dark as the way behind. The party, it seems, is over. 

Lauren’s skin jumps as her ears register the scuffing of her feet. She freezes, internally sighing at her own startle reflex, until— 

That might’ve been an echo. But it might not have. 

Shit. Evony? She shines the light ahead. There’s the faint outline of benches, tables—

There’s a flash, shifting shadows, like someone sitting at the table, a guest who doesn’t know the party’s over. 

She shifts the angle of her phone, throwing the beam a different direction, dismissing the shadow and showing the bench empty, the tabletop clean. She angles her phone back. There’s two flashes of light, eye level, like something standing just beyond the doorway, staring at her, or something reflective catching the light of her phone. Crystal, maybe, or metal. 

Lauren blinks. Nothing. 

Fucking eye strain. That’s what she tells the almost painful prickle of adrenaline surging under her skin. 

But her feet know better. She sidles into the closest branch corridor, eyes not leaving the doorway for more than a moment to check if the hallway’s clear. It is. Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? 

There’s an inset in the wall. She backs into it, thanking whatever force there is out there that there’s apparently no spiders in this pocket of the Otherworld. Angles the light away from the door. 

—And that sound was definitely not her. She thumbs the button on her phone to kill the light, and just like that, she’s plunged into a darkness so absolute and close that a small part of her wonders if that’s all there is left of her, now—if it’s just her and the memory of her heartbeat, swallowed whole by the dark. 

Like it’s just the dark, and the dead. 

Something shivers the dark, and it’s a moment before Lauren realizes—it’s a sound. Footsteps. There’s no direction, in the dark; it’s like it comes from everywhere at once. She’s disoriented, part of her knows, but even clinging to the wall like the the floor’s about to give way, everything seems to tilt—centerless, groundless. 

And that’s when she starts hallucinating. 

She’s not sure if her eyes are open or closed anymore; she can see the walls, the faint lines of the carvings on them, little spirals of light, carving away the outer skin of stone to reveal something ghostly and glowing. She thinks she’s blinking; eyes straining. The image doesn’t change, open or closed. 

She squeezes her eyes shut as the footsteps grow closer, to be sure; sparks shoot across the inside of her eyelids. And then she realizes—

The footsteps have a direction. They’re coming from her left, further down the branching corridor. And the sparks inside her eyelids are changing color, shading a warm light that _might_ be coming from the same direction. 

She forces her eyes open; her vision twists as the world rights itself, takes on an order again. 

It is. A light, that is. Coming closer. Like firelight, flickering on the stone, casting shadows. She dares a glance in the direction of the doorway. Darkness; impenetrable. 

She’d say that she has the _advantage_ , in that whoever—whatever—is coming around the corner can’t see her from where she’s tucked back against the wall. But she supposes that doesn’t matter with the dead. 

And then she sees the shadow on the ground, and sighs, gritting her teeth. She steps out to face Evony. 

“I see you found the door. Not that it was hard.” Evony’s eyes flicker between Lauren in her disheveled and the space she stepped out of. One eyebrow rises. “Something interesting in there?” 

“Shut up.” Lauren says through gritted teeth. 

Evony looks mock-hurt. “Nasty. What a way to greet your traveling companion at the door to the Otherworld—“ 

“Yeah, well, I don’t think we’ll be getting through it anytime soon.” Lauren says, grateful for the change in topic. “Not unless we have—“ 

“These?” Evony holds up her other hand; there’s another (much smaller) torch in it. Lighter metal, shorter length, unlit. 

Lauren isn’t sure whether to roll her eyes or raise her eyebrows. She thinks she tries to do both. “What are those supposed to do?” 

“Bless us.” Evony smirks. “I thought you’d have guessed that.” 

“I got the _blessing_ part. I just figured that it took permission from a living scion of that family.” 

Evony shrugs. “In a manner of speaking.” She holds out one of them to Lauren. 

Lauren opens her mouth to ask what the fuck she means by *that*, and then shuts it again, because they all know how well *that’s* gone for her tonight. She takes the torch and lights it off of Evony’s heavier one. 

Finally, she can’t hold it in anymore. “And these help us how?” 

Evony’s smirk widens into a full-on smile. “Thought you’d have guessed that, too. Fire’s important to them. Or, it was.” 

Lauren remembers the flame leaping from the head of the kneeling figure. 

She supposes it makes some kind of metaphorical sense. But her adrenaline rush is fading, and she’s too tired at the moment for puzzling out the exact nuances of the meaning, even if something about it tugs at her, looking at Evony’s smug grin. 

She realizes Evony’s torch is a different one than before. “What happened to your other torch?” 

“Had to light one from the corpse-flames.” 

“What?” 

Evony rolls her eyes and breezes past her towards the doorway. “I swear, how you got this far is a mystery to me. 

“You’re lucky you found the door before I got here, though. Otherwise I might’ve left without you.” 

“Somehow I doubt that.” Lauren says, but not loud enough to start an argument. 

As Evony walks past her, Lauren notices blistering on the back of her torch hand. ”Evony, you burned your hand." 

Evony turns, pulling her hand back so that Lauren can’t touch it. "I had to reach for the torches. I suppose I'm used to being fireproof." 

Lauren rolls her eyes, but it's mostly out of habit. "Yeah, you kinda aren't anymore. Be careful." 

"Doctor's advice?" Evony asks, voice icy. 

"I'd prefer it if you didn't catch on fire, given that you seem to know so much about this place." Lauren catches Evony's wide-eyed look and has to suppress a laugh. "Sorry—that was an exaggeration. We're pretty difficult to set on fire without an accelerant. Comparable enough to your species." She considers correcting it to _former_ , but she thinks maybe that's rubbing it in Evony's face a little too hard. 

Even if she deserves it. 

It still seems to irritate Evony plenty, though; she huffs. "Fine. Are you ready to go, or should I leave you back here?" 

//

The feasthall itself is _much_ larger than it looked under Lauren's little flashlight app. 

Flashlight in one hand and torch in the other, paired with Evony's, she can see it goes for a _long fucking way_. The ceiling disappears above them, like in the Archives. 

Unlike the pristine stillness of the catacombs behind them, this hall looks like it was abandoned in the middle of a fight. Benches are strewn at strange angles, knocked over; at least one table that she sees is overturned. There are plates still on the table, food turned to dust. 

She keeps expecting to see bodies, but there are none. 

"What is this place?" Lauren asks, barely more than a whisper. 

"You can't guess?" 

"I _thought_ it was a ceremonial feasting hall for the dead of the family." 

"By my guess, you're half right." Evony's looking around, too; they're picking their way through the tables side-by-side. Neither of them has mentioned it. Lauren isn't sure who started it. 

Must've been Evony. 

Lauren frowns. "You mean—No. That's too..." 

"Too what? It _is_ the Otherworld." 

"... Neat. You'd think the Otherworld would be more... Chaotic." 

Evony laughs. "It's only chaotic if you don't understand the logic of it." 

"We kind of ended up here because a piece of the Archives literally reappeared in front of our eyes." 

"Point taken. Still, I don't see how this could be anything else. That's what most of those ceremonial feasthalls represent, anyway." 

"But—only the Dark Fae, right? And—why would the Hall of the Hunt be _empty_? The Dark Fae aren't extinct." 

"We aren't what we used to be, either." Evony says quietly. She shakes herself. "But that's a question for philosophers. We're more into KPIs these days. The metaphors have changed a bit." 

_Still, wouldn't that be more like redecorating?_ Lauren wants to ask. Something keeps it inside her mouth, though. 

This is the Hall of the Hunt. Not the ceremonially-named lobby of a pretentious downtown office building with a sharp-eyed (literally) assistant staffing the desk to keep the curious and the uninvited at bay. 

This is the Otherworld gathering place of the Dark. 

Though, it seems to have gone out of business. 

They make their way through the vast dark to one of the doors on the far side. Lauren breathes an internal sigh of relief when she sees electric lighting on the far side of the threshold. 

When the door shuts behind them, though, and they're standing there with their torches blazing uselessly, Lauren realizes there's something very off about this— 

"We're in the Light Archives."


	5. Chapter 5

“This is—“ Lauren stops, disbelieving. “We’re in the Light Archives.” 

“No, we’re not.” Evony gestures towards the door in front of them. “Or _that_ would be the exit to the surface.” 

Lauren doesn’t bother asking how Evony knows the layout of the Light Archives so well. 

She’s _really_ starting to hate how often Evony is right, now that she’s human. 

Obligingly, she reaches for the door— _Evony_ won’t open it her own damn self—and there’s the next segment of the Fae collective unconscious. 

Lauren frowns at what she sees. “Really?” 

It looks, for all intents and purposes, a lot like the Dark Archives they initially passed through. It’s also a lot like the Light Archives, at least as Lauren remembers them. Both of them are, in some respects, treasure stores. Collected records. 

Impossible as it seems, this is just… bigger. And slightly better-lit—even if they’ve reverted back to firelight from hanging lamps of some kind. 

Evony doesn't answer. Lauren looks over at her. Evony's scanning the stacks, wide-eyed, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. 

"Evony?" Lauren asks. Evony startles slightly, jerking her head to look at Lauren. 

"This is impossible." Is all she says. Lauren's skin prickles. 

"What is?" 

Evony doesn't clarify. 

Lauren gives up after a few moments. ”Are we still going out the other side?" 

Evony nods. "Only way out is through." 

"Alright, then let's get moving. We've been here long enough. The others are probably waiting." 

Evony lets out a puff of air that's almost a laugh. It's not comforting. Still, they start walking. 

// 

"I never thought I'd say this, but if I never see a library again, it'll be too soon." 

Evony does laugh at that; short and bitter. 

Lauren's nose starts to wrinkle. There's a smell, different than the smell of old books or parchment and dust, like in both Archives, or the smell of earth and old stone, like in the catacombs. Something sharper, familiar—although Lauren's never smelled it like _this_ before. Never this pure—And now, a few minutes in, never this _overwhelming_. 

And it’s still getting stronger. 

“That smell…” Lauren says softly, because there’s no way that Evony’s missing this. 

“Yes.” Evony affirms next to her. 

Blood. 

Lauren’s not even fazed by blood, usually—but this, this _strongly_ , and she can’t even see the _source_ of the smell. Her skin crawls. 

Whatever they find, she’s fairly certain she won’t like it. 

Finally, they’re swimming in the smell—so strong that Lauren’s covering her mouth and nose with her arm—and still nothing. 

And then Evony stops. Lets out that same puff of disbelieving laughter, staring at something in the stacks. Lauren follows her gaze. 

And finds herself gripping the torch so hard her hand aches. 

The books. 

They’re all scabbed shut; soaked in blood and then dried. _Caked_ in it. 

Ruined. 

She’s in the row before she can think about what she’s doing. She looks up; looks down the row, across the way, behind her, walks out into the main aisle and looks as far as she can see—

Entire stacks, scabbed over like a wound. 

One word; just one word. Because there’s only one explanation for this, even if her brain refuses to reconcile the word—and the unassuming shape it evokes—with the evidence in front of her. The sheer, undeniable _violence_ drenching the history around her. 

Because if the Dark Archives were the collective history of the Dark Fae, and they’ve passed through the place where they joined up with the Light— 

“Trick.” 

Evony makes a sound next to her that might be a laugh. “The old man did have his day.” Even she sounds shaken, though. 

Lauren turns to face her. She’d be angry—she _is_ angry; she’s _livid_ , doesn’t Evony understand her _position_ now?—but she’s heard this kind of thing so many times and it _never seems to stop_. 

“How can you be so casual about this?” It comes out like an honest question. She’s past the point of asking rhetorically. 

Evony sees her expression; rolls her eyes and snorts. "What? It's not like I can _do_ anything about it now. Besides, the old man's retired now." Her eyes return to scanning the stacks. "And I have to say, he's gotten more reasonable with age." 

Lauren snorts. "Are you saying that because you clearly share so many _values >_, or because he agreed to help you kill Bo?" 

Evony huffs out a laugh. "Of course you were in the Archives. I'm assuming that's where this—“ She indicates herself. “—Came into play?" 

"You'd be correct." 

"I've tried to kill her before. What gives?" 

"Trick." Lauren says simply. "Seeing as he's so _reasonable_ to you. The one living blood relative that Bo has that hasn't been tortured into insanity or making people throw themselves into fires." 

"Well, you clearly haven't read our history, because..." She indicates the stacks around them. 

"Yeah, well, the records on La Shoshain left this part out." 

"And if you know history, you'd know that _this_ is inevitably the truth that lies behind the pretty pretty books and the benevolent tyrants. 

"I'd say that it's none of your business anyways, but you don't need access to our history and our sacred spaces to know that; you've seen it enough in your own life. It's the nature of power. Not your fault all your kind have been able to amount to is a series of petty kingdoms." Evony looks Lauren up and down disdainfully. "Frankly, I'm disappointed you keep missing that. You _seem_ decently intelligent." 

Lauren frowns. "My _intelligence_ has nothing to do with my moral objection to genocide." 

"So you ignore the existence of everything you find morally objectionable?" Evony tilts her head to one side. “Or do you just ignore it when it serves to ease your conscience? Experimenting on live subjects was ‘morally objectionable' to you, too, and yet here we are.” 

“That—“ 

“Was what, different? Do Fae ‘not count’? Do only humans count, Doctor Lewis? And the big, bad Fae deserve whatever you can dish out?” 

“That wasn’t even supposed to _happen_.” Lauren hisses. “It wasn’t even supposed to be on Bo’s _behalf_ ; it was supposed to be a last resort in case you threatened Crystal or me. But when you found Trick so _reasonable_ about your proposition to kill Bo, you kind of forced my hand.” 

“Tell me something, Doctor. What d’you think Bo would want, if she ever became that _thing_ she’s so terrified of becoming?” 

Lauren swallows. If she’s being honest, she’s come to Trick direct about it before. 

But this is Evony, and it would kind of prove Evony _right_ (again), so she won’t be honest. “We won’t let it happen.” 

"Which would fly if this was a comic book, but this isn't, and we both know that'll be hard for you to help with on the run." 

Evony takes another step towards Lauren; she's within the circle of heat from Evony's torch, now. 

"I'm going to point out something that you've been trying very hard not to acknowledge: Bo is capable of destruction on this scale. And you want to sympathize with her because she might do it _unintentionally_? That’s the most naive thing I’ve ever heard. 

"Bo's made no bones about what she wants you to do if she can't handle Ms. Hyde, but you all seem bent on giving her chance after chance to turn into just that, even while it becomes clearer that you are all in far, _far_ over your heads." 

"Bo's being _used_ —“ 

"Yes. She is. Because that's the nature of this game. Does that somehow make anyone _less_ dead?" Evony takes a step closer. "You can appease a tyrant. You can flatter a megalomaniac. But Bo isn't any of those. Bo is a _weapon_. She's a catalyst. And her presence—just her _existence_ —I think you have a word for what it signifies. An extinction-level event?" 

Lauren's eyes narrow. “How do you know that?” 

Evony shakes her head. "Just the rumors about Aife's child. And that Bo's father isn't Fae." 

"Not Fae? Then how is she a succubus?" 

"There are older things than Fae." 

"What, like the Garuda?" 

Evony snorts. "The Fae equivalent of the last dinosaur." 

"What d'you mean by "extinction-level event", then? The dinosaurs couldn't avert a damn _comet_." 

"Cataclysm is one thing; global warming is another. And you and I know—just from looking at these stacks—that behind every "comet" here is another bag of bones that bleeds. 

"This is someone's power move-- _Bo_ is someone's power move--and when it comes to those, nothing is inexorable except in hindsight. But only if you're willing to do what it takes to avert it." Evony straightens. "And besides. What if she decides to make her _mark_ on the world? She certainly has the _genes_ for it. And the family history.” 

"Of course. It all comes back to you preserving your power. No matter the cost." 

“And contrary to what you seem to think, I don't want to rule over a graveyard. It's counterproductive if my people die. Is there such a thing as unavoidable losses? Sure. 

“But I swore an oath to protect the people who owe me fealty, and to lead them through times like these. They're the ones who make me the Morrigan." 

Lauren takes another step closer. “I think you mean “made.’” 

Evony rolls her eyes. “If that’s all you’ve got, why waste any further breath talking?” 

Lauren walks past her. “Thank god.” 

//

The stacks drop away—finally—as they reach a hallway, of sorts; it looks like the Dark Archives would, Lauren thinks, if the Archives looked—well, _finished_. The ceiling vaults above them, but in the light from the lamps, now, she can see the faint outlines of arches above them, like an old cathedral. 

A cathedral of the Fae. 

She doesn’t notice the slight downward slant of the floor until they come to the next chamber. 

The architecture changes as they go; from the ornate shapes of the stonework to something… Plainer, cruder. Still arched, but strangely proportioned. And the chambers off to the side—they come in strange clusters, almost honeycombed. 

The ceiling is still vaulted above them, but it’s lower, and the windows eventually disappear. The air, already quiet and still, swims around them, flows around them with an almost physical pressure, now. Quieter and quieter, until even their breathing seems muffled, their footsteps. Their heartbeats. 

There’s something prickling at the back of Lauren’s brain, and it refuses to articulate fully until they come to another chamber. 

The proportions aren’t just _Gothic_ —not the vaulted ceilings, the high arches—they’re _wrong_ , for an adult human. The sills are strangely high, the benches carved into the wall are either just too high or just too low, and some of them don’t even looks like benches that Lauren would _use_. If that’s what they are. 

She remembers something about architecture, art, and the Golden Ratio—how it’s linked to the actual proportions of the human body. She doesn’t remember the application offhand, or how to measure it, but she’s fairly certain that, if she were able to take measurements with her phone, the proportions would be off. _Very_ off. 

Whatever built this part of the Archive wasn’t just not-human; it wasn’t even humanoid. 

The whole place feels _wrong_ because of it. Not the way that a cathedral would dwarf her, soar around her—it feels too small and too large at the same time. 

The stone changes color, too, as they move down; it gets darker. 

Until Lauren realizes—this isn’t a cathedral. It’s a cavern. The ceilings at this depth were carved—she can see the faint marks of whatever tool was used—by something that was very definitely _not_ humanoid. 

“Oh.” Evony says, not long after. “Oh, _shit_.” Lauren has never heard that tone of voice from her before. 

“What is it?” Lauren asks. She didn’t _think_ she meant to whisper. Or maybe that just the effect of the air—whatever it is, here, is far, _far_ below the rest. 

Evony shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter,” She says, “We won’t be leaving here alive.” 

//

“Helpful, Evony, but until something comes out of the shadows and _eats_ me, I’m not exactly stopping. I have somewhere to be.” 

Evony snorts slightly, almost disbelieving. “Suit yourself.” Still, she stays close to Lauren. 

“What made this?” Lauren asks as they walk. 

Evony shakes her head. “Did you ever _read_ a fairy tale? Naming things calls them out.” 

“I’m not so sure they’re still here to be called.” Lauren says, the itch of being watched, being out of place, sore thumb-like, increasing over her skin even while she says it. 

Evony closes her eyes, stops walking. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Evony, as satisfying as it is to see you _scared_ of something, the only chance we have to leave here alive is to _keep walking_.” Lauren says. “And if you’re not going to _tell me_ , I can’t—“ 

Evony opens her eyes. The light from the torches dances on the curve of them, fire flowing like liquid currents in the living spark there. 

And then Lauren sees the shadows. 

Out of the corner of her eye, really. Close to the flames, but not the flames themselves. She blinks, and they’re gone; slipping around the tongues of it. 

The air feels _close_ , she thinks, even closer, with the shadows pressing in around them, the world around them darkening, until she realizes—she can’t breathe. 

She can—her throat and her lungs seem to work fine, and her heart—apart from working far too hard—feels normal. 

But she’s suffocating. Bad air, maybe; or whatever these shadows are. Either way, her chest heaves and her throat works and she feels her hand gripping the torch and there are shadows dancing over her vision. 

In the stone-grey patches that appear over her vision and then vanish, in the afterimage of the flames, she sees them moving. Impossible and not remotely human. Not at all like them. 

And then one of them steps out. 

She’s hallucinating. She has to be. Whatever is _here_ , it’s not something their eyes can apprehend. So this—

This is something else. 

The shadow detaches from the flames, still flickering and bending slightly, and stands in front of them. 

One flickering motion: for them to follow. 

It takes all her effort. She looks back at Evony, who seems to be faring worse than her. She grabs Evony’s free arm—clumsily and rough, but Evony moves without resistance, stumbling a little, mouth open and gasping. 

The shadow is still there when Lauren looks back. She can make out two legs, a silhouette, standing like—

The flicker could be the flame warping the image, or it could be hair, long, long hair. The figure turns and walks, the flicker of its hair swinging behind it as it walks into the cavernous dark. Lauren follows. 

As Lauren’s vision grows worse, the shadow becomes clearer. Not _clear_ ; not completely. But she has the impression of swinging hair, swaying stride. The curve of a hip and a set stance that’s oddly familiar. A cocked head and expectant look. 

And something like a blade, long and curving like a tongue of flame. Gone as soon as it’s there. 

It motions Lauren forward again, and Lauren follows, one hand gripping the torch and the other Evony’s arm. 

The stonework becomes irrelevant; the flagstones disappear into a rough floor. Lauren’s vision goes grey. She keeps what’s left of it focused on the shadow, even while the world fades and she stumbles. 

She stumbles into the corner of a wall. After a long moment, she realizes—she hasn’t passed out yet. She’s still on her feet. So is Evony, even though she’s bent nearly double. Their torches seem to burn brighter, dispelling the shadows. 

Either the shadow is leading them out, or this will be a drawn-out, excruciating death. 

The shadow is waiting for them in the passage just beyond. Lauren pushes off the wall. 

It goes on like this for who knows how long; Lauren catches a glimpse of the shadow in the afterimage of the flame, the sparks dancing behind her eyelids, the heartbeat of each blink. She pushes off in that direction until she reaches that spot, and then looks again. The shadow has always moved—ahead, to one side or the other. 

Gradually, she realizes she’s breathing easier—much easier. And her torch is leaping higher, more quickly—

And the shadow is harder and harder to see. 

Her feet find flagstones again; the shadow is gone. But the passage slopes up from here, and Lauren thinks she _just might_ see the faint echo of light up ahead. 

Lauren lets go of Evony’s arm. Evony straightens without a complaint. The sound of their breathing is harsh in her ears. 

But it is a sweet, sweet thing to have enough air for things to be _loud_ again. 

“You alright?” Lauren asks. 

“Stop wasting the air.” Evony replies between deep breaths. Lauren snorts and turns back to the passage. 

“Come on.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this one; life happened. This one's a little shorter (though, damn it was hard), because it didn't seem to fit with the section either before or after it.

_This_ part of the trip, Lauren’s familiar with—the tall sandy-brown stones, the torches along the way. They’re at the outer layer of the place; she can feel the difference in the air, the human world pressing against it from the outside, all the sound against the peculiar silence of this realm. 

In all fairness, though, she might still be extra-aware of things having to do with air. 

She wouldn’t usually say this, but the reek of the exhaust fumes and the rain unleashing god-knows-what from the pavement is an utter relief. She’s almost relieved enough to miss Evony’s nervous shifting beforehand. Almost. 

“D’you have to carry around a lit torch in the city?” She asks instead. 

“Not just any lit torch, sweetheart. We’ll have to take precautions.” 

Lauren sighs. Of course. “I suppose they’ve seen weirder. It _is_ Toronto.” She’s too tired to fight about this. 

They step over the threshold—Lauren fights to restrain the urge to dive over it like there’s a sci-fi-level gate coming down on it. She keeps expecting something to stop her, to fall on her. 

She supposes if she just dissolves into dust when she steps over, it’ll most likely be quick. 

Lauren opens her eyes and looks down. She lets out a breath when she appears to be… intact. More or less. 

She looks over at Evony to check on her, and finds her staring at the torch in her hand with a frown. 

Well, it _was_ a torch. Now it’s a bone. A femur, by the looks of it, if that’s a standard humanoid-variant Fae skeleton. 

“Really?” Lauren asks. “ _That’s_ gonna be harder to explain.” 

Evony sends her a look that says _And you’re complaining that it got us out of there?_

// 

Evony takes exactly two seconds before ruining any fragile truce they’d managed to establish over a shared threat. 

“Did you come through here and disarm my doors for the hell of it?” Ah, that. 

The short answer is no, but she enjoyed it anyways. The doors were all trapped. Awfully hard to escape if you’re dead. 

“I was a little preoccupied with being a fugitive and having my life and the lives of people I care about threatened on a daily basis,” Lauren says, the memory of _that_ particular day raw and desperate, “But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t give me a certain sense of satisfaction.” 

“Oh pooh. I didn’t even explicitly _threaten_ Crystal’s life.” 

Suddenly, she’s less tired. Lauren turns and fixes Evony with a flat stare. Evony’s lips twist wicked and red. 

“Not that I had to. You came to me _exceptionally_ well-trained.” 

Evony’s gasp is real shock; the back of her head hits the wall first, Lauren’s hand on her neck, and Lauren sees her eyes haze in pain while the rest of her sprawls out. 

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge now.” Lauren hisses. They’re above ground. In the daylight. Evony came here with her. Willingly, even. 

“Mmm.” Evony licks her lips; that smirk returns, even faster than before. “You’ve done a spectacular—“ Her voice chokes off when Lauren squeezes down on her throat. A thrill like lightning moves along every nerve; any old human walking by could see. Any old human. 

Lauren laughs. “You know I could just leave you here, right? For your guards to find? Hell, I could _kill_ you. You _deserve_ it.” 

“But you don’t kill humans,” Evony rasps when Lauren’s hand loosens, “And besides, every genius needs a witness.” 

“Witness?” Lauren mocks, over the sudden winter in her guts. “What kind of game do you think this is? Unlike _you_ , I haven’t exactly had the luxury of treating life like a game.” 

Evony sneers. “You don’t know a thing about me, sweetheart. But I’ve met hundreds of _you_. A century toiling in the dark, hungering for an _audience_. Convinced that you, you’re the next Shakespeare or Tycho Brahe or Jeanne D’Arc. You think you’re the first to walk into our house and hold our treasures in your hands, the first to taste our favor, and you _always_ think _you’re_ going to be the one to walk away with it.” She’s pushing off the wall, now; pushing forward, and Lauren’s falling back, faltering— “You’re all falling stars and you need someone to watch you burn.” Evony spreads her hands. “And I’m a captive audience.” 

Lauren drops her hand and steps away, dizzy, shivers running over her skin. “Is there anything you _don’t_ make about you?” 

Evony shrugs. “Why should I? It’s my life you’re toying with.” 

Lauren turns away, suddenly sick to her stomach and choking on her adrenaline. 

“We need to find Crystal.” 

// 

Lauren swears as she hangs up again. Crystal still isn’t answering. And she isn’t at either of their rendezvous points. 

She slams her fist on the door of the car and hisses in pain. 

Lauren slips the access card out of her jacket pocket again; she still has her access card from the Ash’s compound, too, although it’s long been deactivated. It’s a simple magnetic swipe; the Ash had other means of tracking his wards that didn’t involve human-made technologies like smart cards. 

She thumbs it over to reveal a drivers’ license, complete with enhancements, with her face on it, but a new name. She wonders if Kenzi told Bo. 

_”Can I ask a favor? Like, a_ huge _favor?”_

_”What makes you think you’re in a position to even_ ask _that?” Lauren stops, her shoulders slumping slightly. Kenzi shoves at her shoulder. “Dude, you know what she is! How can you be boinking her? She’s just using you to get to Bo.”_

_”I know what she is, Kenzi. And I know she’s using me. And, I’m not. And—“ Lauren shakes her head, presses the fingers of one hand to her temple. “—I need an ID.”_

_Kenzi stops cold, looking at her—almost dumbfounded._

_”And by that, I mean I need an identity. A new one.” She pushes out a sigh. “But a driver’s license will do.”_

_She’s silent, looking at her with those wide blue eyes until Lauren has to swallow and shift. Waits for the barrage of questions and the inevitable refusal._

_”Alright.” She says, and Lauren almost doesn’t register that she says yes. “But I’m gonna need some shit from you.”_

If Kenzi could see her now. Staring stupidly at her last gift to Lauren, trying to decide between staying here and lying through her teeth to Bo and Dyson even longer, or trying to bring Crystal into the group (out of the question; Kenzi may have been human, but Crystal is a _civilian_ ), or running away with someone who’s a complete stranger to all of them. Even though Crystal doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve this life; _their_ life. Human among the Fae. But she won’t make it out of the city without Lauren’s help. 

She wishes she could ask Kenzi, a little bit, what to do. She’s never had the luxury of sentimentality, casually tossing around the word _family_. Not the way Kenzi uses it, or Bo. 

Dyson, Bo—even Tamsin. They’d be coming home to Kenzi. 

She thinks of that boy, the one with the impossibly bright eyes, and how he just… disappeared. Hears Tamsin and Kenzi whispering over a book, snatches of words; _Valhalla_. _Cinvat_. 

She owes it to Kenzi, to go and be with them. And to Bo and Dyson—and hell, even Tamsin—to be honest with them. 

She owes her.


	7. Chapter 7

You don’t put coffee grounds _in_ the kettle. You don’t actually use a kettle to make coffee, although depending on where you are geographically, you might use a pot—as in, cooking pot. But then, this is Toronto, and it’s forty-odd degrees and the quieter side of 3 am. 

Lauren puts the kettle down and leans on the counter. Where _is_ the fucking coffeepot? She’s made coffee here however many hundreds of times and she’s been through all the cupboards three times and—

Right. It’s on the island. Where it always is. 

But coffee isn’t really soothing, and maybe hot water would be better, especially if one of them’s hurt, and—what is this, medieval France? She has alcohol and gauze in her kit. 

The coffeepot spits and hisses, and it would probably work better if she put water _in_ it first. 

This time, the coffeepot burbles and then quiets as water starts percolating. 

Right, food, that’s what she was trying to do. She empties the kettle into a pot that looks about the right size (really, is there a wrong size for pasta?) and twists the dial for the burner. 

She leans on the counter again. The cat clock on top of the beer fridge waves at her. Twenty-four, forty-eight… coming up on seventy-two hours. Evony is sitting in the armchair, so quiet that Lauren thinks maybe she should be suspicious, but she’s too busy looking forward and back and mapping it all out. 

Seventy-two hours. Someone will have noticed, and given the amount of blood, the Elders might already be involved. Succession is a messy business for the Light, and from what she’s read from the Dark archives—

Not that it’ll matter, if they get their hands on her. 

Even Bo’s house wouldn’t be safe, if they knew Lauren was here. They’d burn it down with Bo inside it, and maybe even kill Bo for trying to protect her. 

There’s nowhere safe, really. They’re in the air and the water, she knows; they’re going to be coming for her, and it’s the least she can do to make sure Bo doesn’t get caught in it when it all goes down. 

Or Crystal. 

Crystal wasn’t there. At the meeting spot. At either of the spots they agreed on. Lauren’s nauseous and relieved; one introduction she didn’t want to have to make, one less link in the chain binding Crystal to the Fae. But she’s sick at leaving Crystal out there. Wherever she is. 

She’s trying to prepare for what she’s going to ask them when they get there, and every attempt gets more and more transparent and ridiculous. 

_Hey Bo, sorry your best friend died—wanna rescue another human being held captive by the Fae?_

_Oh by the way, I might’ve slept with her at some point._

_Hey, Bo, the real reason I came back is because I tried to be a hero and I failed_ epically _and I need your help finding this chick I slept with and now feel responsible for._

_Oh by the way, sorry about Kenzi._

Lauren buries her head in her hands. What was she _thinking_? 

Maybe Crystal didn’t get Lauren’s evac message, and she’s at home. 

Right. 

The cat waves at her, smiling enigmatically, and she watches her escape window close tick by tick. 

No, not just tick by tick. That was definitely the gate on the chain-link creaking, rustling, and those are definitely footsteps, and they’re definitely getting closer. It could be Bo and Dyson, but it could be… 

Lauren wraps her hand around the handle of the knife she laid next to the sink when she got here and turns around. Towards her kit on the island. Towards the door. 

The door creaks, and her hand tightens reflexively, pinpricks of adrenaline up and down her arm. There’s the confused thumping of boots, and three of them shuffle in. 

They look small, is her first thought. Bo and Dyson in all their black leather and Trick with his staff strapped across his back and Bo’s necklace hanging around her neck like a talisman and they look as unlike themselves as the house itself, and Lauren’s next thought is did she accidentally walk into a parallel universe. 

And there’s too few of them; Tamsin isn’t with them, and Kenzi—

Kenzi. 

Somehow, it’s worse that they didn’t bring her back. The absence gapes. 

She thought she was going to—she doesn’t know—patch them up when they got here. From the hordes of Hel or whatever it was they were facing. She thought she’d be stitching them up, setting broken bones, stabilizing, healing. Talking to Dyson, and getting help looking for Crystal. And then leaving. 

One look at Bo’s face, though, and she knows her kit’s going to be useless. Her plan and her words and her panic all sublimate under the pressure of their collective history, their shared grief. 

Lauren’s hands loosen numbly, and her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. Guess they all knew something like this was bound to happen someday. They smell like acrid smoke, burnt hair, and something decomposing as they get closer. 

Dyson manages half a tired smile and nods in the direction of something behind Lauren. “Hey Doc, you trying to set the house on fire?” 

Lauren looks back and sees the empty kettle smoking on the back burner. “ _Shit_.” 

// 

Lauren throws the kettle in the sink, where it hisses and spits and eventually stops smoking (the entire bottom is black now), and they fan the smoke until it dissipates into an even fog that should clear through the holes in the walls someday. “Thank god this place doesn’t have a fire alarm.” 

Dyson doesn’t say anything. Lauren looks over to find him staring at the kettle in the sink with the towel clenched in one hand and he looks so tired. 

“Where is she?” Lauren asks softly. 

“Tamsin took her.” Dyson’s voice is ragged, barely more than a rumble. He’d been alright with the towel, but now he’s completely frozen, fixed in place. 

“Where?”

“Valhalla. Kenzi had a plan.” Dyson sounds like even finishing a sentence takes too much effort. He corrects himself. “Has a plan.” 

Lauren looks at Dyson. Sees his clenched fist. Sees his arm trembling slightly. 

Trick sets his staff down and pipes up. “Which we can make good on another day. And it doesn’t make it any better now.” He nods at Lauren. “Let’s get patched up and take some time to regroup. The immediate threat is past, and Kenzi is safe with Tamsin.” 

Lauren can’t help but raise an eyebrow. 

“Someone should go find her,” Dyson says, like the thought just escapes his mouth.    
Crickets. Trick looks around awkwardly. Bo stares off into space. 

“I’ll go find her.” He jerks into motion and pushes past Trick; no one moves to stop him. 

Well, shit. She was gonna start with him. 

// 

Everyone falls silent when Dyson carries Tamsin in; past Bo, shock-faced; past Lauren, Evony, Trick. None of them move, while he takes her up the stairs—no. No, Lauren moves. Away from Bo, away from Evony, grabbing her bag, following. Dyson makes a beeline upstairs, for Bo's bed. Past the gaping wound of the second doorway. 

He lays her on the bed, and she rasps when her back touches the mattress. He rolls her onto her side. 

Lauren's not far behind, but he looks at her almost desperately. "Get that jacket off." Lauren nods in Tamsin's direction, and opens her kit. 

Dyson pulls Tamsin upright, and starts peeling off the jacket; clumsily, it's nothing like getting undressed and Tamsin can't seem to get coordinated enough to cooperate. "I'm not a fucking baby, Dyson." 

Dyson just keeps stripping off the jacket, and Tamsin seems to figure out how to move again after a moment. Tamsin drops back onto the bed on her side, back facing Lauren. Dyson settles into a crouch and holds her hand while Lauren examines Tamsin. Lauren’s eyes dart back and forth between them. 

She focuses intently on Tamsin for a few minutes. Tamsin lays there, breathing slow and shallow, hand in Dyson’s, and Dyson steady, like she's not white-knuckling his hand. 

She _looks_ more or less whole—minus the two bone-deep gashes on her back—until Lauren gets a closer look. 

In light of the wounds to her back, it’s easier to miss the other ones at a cursory glance. But they’re definitely there; one rapidly blackening eye, split lips and cheekbone, and a nasty lump on the back of her head that, if she was human, Lauren wouldn’t be leaving Tamsin alone for the next twenty-four hours. 

And that’s not counting the bruises on her upper arms and forearms, presumably from blocking attacks; the angry purpling marks on her wrists where she’d twisted against what looks like multiple pairs of hands, or the bruises along her side that Lauren—

Lauren is amazed. The blow to the head had to have been the end of the fight, if she had to guess. But these bruises… If _those_ didn’t bring her down… 

But, her pupils are even, and Tamsin seems to be getting her coordination back even as Lauren’s examining her. 

She’s more concerned, though, that Valhalla was apparently so hostile. And she didn’t bring Kenzi back, so… 

The sick feeling surges up her throat. Even _she_ has her limits to how much stress she can handle, though she didn't think _this_ would be her breaking point. Lauren swallows it back down, though. None of that, not when they’re all so wounded. 

“Kenzi.” Lauren forces out instead. 

“Safe.” Tamsin says, hunched in on herself. 

Lauren nods. “How do Valkyries handle concussions?” 

“Peachy.” 

Lauren snorts. “Was that sarcasm, or word salad?” 

“Sorry, I don’t speak dictionary.” 

“You look like you went through a blender made of fists. If I let you sleep, are you gonna wake up?” 

Tamsin holds up one thumb. Lauren rolls her eyes. 

"She's just exhausted, Dyson. The wounds on her back are already healing, and the rest of the wounds aren’t nearly as severe.” Lauren says finally, putting her kit away. She closes it up and looks between the two of them, a tug in her chest that she can’t place. She hesitates for a fraction, then lays kit on the bed. "I'll... Let you two be. There's gauze in here if you want to clean up her back a little bit." She gets around the bed before she stops again and says, “Wake her up every hour. Let me know if anything changes." 

Dyson nods, then turns and buries his face against Tamsin's hand. 

// 

When he looks up, Tamsin's looking at him, quiet. 

"Hey, partner," He grins, relieved. 

Tamsin snaps out of it, rolls her eyes slightly, but smiles anyways. "I'm not _dying_ , dude." 

He laughs—should be impossible, after today—short, soft. "Yeah. Yeah, you're good. You made it." He smiles, and Tamsin's eyebrows knit, something flashing through her eyes. 

"Kinda my job description." She manages finally. 

He laughs again and grins wider, gives another "Yeah," and then they can't manage to say anything else. "Get some sleep." He almost whispers. "You've had a long trip." 

She doesn't say anything, looking back at him. But she doesn't pull her hand out of his, and slowly, her eyes start to shut. 

It takes a long time for her breathing to change, though; for her to fall asleep. 

Dyson sets an alarm on his phone, and falls asleep just like that, curled over the edge of the bed.


	8. Chapter 8

Evony hasn’t spoken for almost ten minutes. It must be a record. 

“Bo, your hand.” Bo looks at the cut on the back of her hand like Lauren’s pointing out a street sign. “Let me look at that.” 

It’s bad, but it’s not bad, not for that location; nothing appears to be severed, no lacerated veins, thank god, but she can see fascia and the glisten of tendons and muscle, and the revenants can’t have been exactly sterile. And they can’t expect Bo to want to heal, given everything. But that means—

“Bo, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to check your vitals,” Lauren says, slowly and softly, “And for other injuries. Once I have this stitched up.” Bo doesn’t seem to hear her. Doesn’t seem to notice anything Lauren’s doing to her hand. “Bo.” Bo looks down at her hand, and Lauren’s fingers working there. She nods unevenly. Lauren wishes it was a concussion. 

It’s not like Bo can feel how carefully she’s dabbing the blood away from the stitching; the anaesthetic gel works quickly. But Lauren cleans the last of the seeping blood away and hesitates before she pulls the gauze away and places it in a biohazard bag on the countertop. It’s not like they’re going to be preparing food on it anytime soon. 

She checks for broken bones; broken ribs, her breathing. Concussion comes back negative. Asks her to take off her shirt and checks her for bruising, internal bleeding. Bo is still and pliant under her hands, dried sweat scraping against Lauren’s gloves. 

Lauren already knows; the blue vinyl crinkles like a deflated balloon at a carnival, sticking awkwardly on Bo’s skin. 

“Bo, I’m so sorry.” And she is. 

Bo meets her eyes for the first time since she got here, and Lauren almost regrets saying it. She just _looks_ at Lauren, and the wind’s knocked out of her, but not by her powers, or a glow, or any kind of supernatural force. Just that raw dark-eyed gaze that plays on the inside of her eyelids between waking and sleeping, that she saw when she was working in the lab, that she remembers brushing against her skin; it’s been such a long time since she’s seen it. She always thought she’d have more words to say to it—there are so many that she _should_ be saying, so many things she owes that look—but her mouth dries up. She doesn’t have any left. Where should she start? And now isn’t the time. It’s never _time_. 

Or maybe _time_ has already come and gone. 

Lauren doesn’t try to say much, after that. 

//

“Is there something I can get you?” Bo doesn’t seem to react. Nothing seems to be getting through to her. But she’s so close Lauren can just reach out and… 

Bo stands up so suddenly that she almost knocks over the chair she’s sitting in. Lauren’s hand freezes inches from where Bo’s hand was only a moment before. 

“I-I can’t.” She says, and it’s the first words she’s said since she came in. She clears her throat. “I… I think I just need to go upstairs. I’m sorry. Thank you.” She lifts her bandaged hand and flashes a weak smile. Lauren’s heart sinks, watching her walk up the stairs. 

“Well done, Doctor Lewis.” Evony’s voice floats from over by the chair. Guess she _was_ listening. Lauren shuts her eyes and lets out her breath. 

//

Bo goes upstairs to get some new clothes—something that doesn't smell like burnt flesh and old places that haven't seen the sunlight in millennia. 

She stops at the door to her room. 

A sharp ache in her guts cuts off the never-ending scene on repeat in her head; Kenzi’s limbs going unstrung. Kenzi’s hair in the dirt. One hand grabs the door frame. 

She'd wake Dyson for sure, going in there; it's amazing he isn't already awake. 

But more than that: the two of them, on the bed, like that. In their own world. The two of them. There, together. They look peaceful. The two of them. 

And after all she's put them through. 

She pushes off the frame, towards the second door. 

// 

After Bo goes upstairs, there’s a long moment where no one says anything. 

“Well,” Trick says finally, “I think I’ve done all I can here, and there’s going to be a mountain of paperwork. I better get started before anything else goes to hell.” 

Lauren says something rote and sympathetic-sounding and doesn’t really pay attention as he’s leaving. When she hears the door shut, she lets herself glance up at the cat clock, still smiling and waving steadily. 

“You’re thinking that if you leave now, you can make it to your car and you might make it past the wards before Trick’s called the Elders and told them your location,” Evony’s voice cuts clearly through the silence, “But you also know that Trick is only as old-fashioned as it suits him, and right now, it’d suit him better to use a cell phone and set up a perimeter ward in the event that you do decide to leave.” 

It’s like Evony doesn’t know she lived in a war zone. “I’m not concerned about wards.” She glances up momentarily. “Of any kind.” 

“Of course not,” Evony says in a voice that says, _Of course you are_ , “You’re only concerned about Bo. After all, this is all for her benefit.” 

Lauren’s skin prickles. 

“Riddle me this, Doctor,” She continues, “Before a drug is released to the public, they _always_ have human trials. And before that, depending on the lab, on animals. The question is,” She tilts her chin, and Lauren is going to _strangle_ her, “Which one was I?” 

Lauren laughs; it falls flat. “Excuse me?” 

“A girl’s gotta know how she rates, Doctor.” Evony leans back, with a smirk that’s entirely too satisfied, lips bloodred in the low light. 

“Are you—“ Of course. Of _course_. She doesn’t have to fake a laugh this time, but it’s too much of a giggle. 

“Did you really—” The problem’s there, cracked open in her brain, but she can’t fit her mouth around the words. “Are you actually—Are you actually suggesting that I developed this serum, and used it on you—As some kind of _trial_? So that I could make Bo _human_? And—what? Ride off into the sunset? We wouldn’t make it halfway down the _block_.” 

Evony laughs. “I don’t doubt your dedication, Doctor Lewis, but all those hours you spent, above and beyond the twenty-four-seven I had you on call; all those nights when it was you and the shadows in the archives. Every dead end and non-reactive sample.” She leans back and traces her fingernails in some kind of pattern on the arm of the chair, smirks. “I don’t think it was my face you saw that kept you going.” 

“You’d be surprised,” She mutters, “What people do to survive.” 

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? I’m not _people_.” Evony says, a dangerously playful undertone to her voice. 

“What d’you want? Sympathy? After everything you’ve done?” Lauren snorts. 

“I want you to tell me you never thought it, sitting in the condo I paid for—two a.m., three a.m.—tucked away in the dreams of the city, where no one would hear you. How _easy_ it would be. How she’d even be _grateful_. And you’d never have to worry about keeping up with her, or being _inadequate_ , because she’d slow down for you.” 

Something snaps inside Lauren. The Fae, always reminding her that she’s _beneath_ them. “You wanna know? Yeah, I did. But there is no Hallmark happily-ever-after for someone like me. Not with the life I’ve had. And not for me and Bo. And I’m done trying to be _normal_ or play it _safe_ and hoping that someone will give me permission to have one.” 

Evony’s smirk just keeps curving, like a Cheshire or hyperbolic curve, sharper and sharper, and Lauren can feel her own lips curl, leaning forward onto the arm of the couch, heat rising in her muscles, that fucking superior smile shimmering on that human face—she doesn’t look any different. _Yet_. She should really stop talking, but she wants to throw it all in Evony’s smug face. She wants that smirk to _shatter_ and she wants to see the blood drip down from it. 

“You don’t _rate_ , because this isn’t a game, or a dating show. You imprisoned me, and we both know damn well that you never lost track of Crystal. You threatened innocent people to keep me in line. And then you threatened _Bo_. 

“You weren’t a _trial_ , or a prototype. You were in my way.” 

There’s the flash of teeth in the dark. “Bravo, Doctor.”

//

This whole bathroom business is really the worst part. The best part is that Lauren doesn’t blink twice or try to herd her like a sheepdog when Evony says she has to go. 

Actually, Lauren barely says anything at all. Just points at the stairs and turns away. 

The sink is _disgusting_. Not to mention cracked, chipped, and otherwise barely recognizable except for the carefully cleaned tap handles that, on second glance, have a dark shadow of tarnish gathered in the spaces too small to buff. 

Still. She’s had worse. Even if it galls her to the core to be back in a place like this. 

She splashes her face with cold water, and she’s staring at her reflection in the mirror when she hears something—too low to be a voice, although her hearing has started playing tricks on her, but too loud for a whisper. 

Mostly, it sounds like a whine. 

As much as the sound of crying makes her skin crawl, she can’t stop herself from following the sound to the source—is this what they mean by “watching a train wreck”?—to Kenzi’s room. 

Bo is curled up on the bed in the dark—emo—and she’s whispering something. Not sure to whom, although judging by everything, Evony can only assume Kenzi. Her voice is a whisper, not meant to be heard—honestly, the dead don’t _hear_ —but from time to time it takes on a keening edge like static. She doesn’t seem to realize Evony’s right there. Evony can’t seem to make herself move. 

Like watching a train wreck. 

// 

“Except that’s not the whole truth, is it?” Evony tilts her head, her hair a curling tumble of shadows. “This is about giving the almighty Fae a taste of mortality, some of their own humble pie. We _die_ , Lauren. You've seen us die. And you could have killed me. This isn't about "protecting Bo", or "self-defense", it's about humiliation. Revenge. And bravo, doctor, you were brilliant. I couldn't have hoped for a better choice in a subject." 

Lauren finds what she hopes is a sneer. “In psychology, they call this “denial.’” 

"You arrogant child. You might have taken my abilities away, but I'm not human." 

Something in her voice stops Lauren cold. 

"I have your attention. Good. I might not be Fae anymore, but I will never be _human_ in their eyes. I will be a freak, a threat, a shameful thing, a thing to be disposed of. But I will never be _you_." 

Lauren is silent. 

“No matter what my DNA looks like under a microscope, or how I smell to the wolf; no matter how they treat me—I will have _always_ been Fae. And I still will be. A failed Fae. A fallen Fae. A mortal Fae. A cautionary tale; a reminder of how far we can fall. But still Fae. And therefore different than you." 

Evony reaches out and curls one finger under Lauren's chin. Lauren stays still, stone-faced. "Oh, don't look so _sad_ , darling. Sometimes, biology really does equal destiny." 

//

"I can hear you breathing, _Evony_." Bo's voice comes stiff and soggy from the bed, and Evony didn't realize she'd stopped talking to her imaginary friend. "Is there something you want?" 

"No." She looks for a comeback, but she’s at a loss. 

"Cool." She says flatly. Then, "You should probably go," Bo says, and it's hard to be intimidating with a plugged nose and watery voice. "I'm getting hungry." 

Oh, but Bo makes it too _easy_. "Oh, I don't think _that's_ going to be a problem." She purrs. "I mean, your soft spot for humans is _legendary_." 

Bo goes still. "You don't want to go there right now, Evony." 

And she is _so_ wrong. "No?" Her hand drops from the door and she starts swaying towards Bo's form, curled up, back turned, swaying even without heels. The motion really does stay with you. "You did save my life today." 

"Trust me," Bo spits, but her voice is soft and exhausted with crying, "It was all business." 

"But I feel _safe_ with you, Bo." Evony mocks softly as she approaches the bed. Kenzi's bed. "I could just turn up at your doorstep and you'd take me in. Let me sleep on your couch. Maybe in your bed. I bet," She drags her fingernails over the bedspread, dangerously close to Bo's leg, bending down, "You wouldn't hurt me, would you?" 

There's no warning, just an explosion of movement, and Evony is on her back with Bo's hand on her throat and Bo's mouth _bruising_ hers and she would have _killed_ Bo for this, she would have _killed_ to be kissed like this, to be so helpless for just two minutes, pinned down while Bo pulls the life out of her, and it's so thin and shallow compared to before, she can feel it thinning as it rises up out of her lungs, the arch in her chest, and even over the singular throb of her body, she just wants Bo to keep _going_ , holds and trembles and wonders when she's going to run out--

Bo shoves Evony away from her, and Evony slides across the bed, nearly falling off. She can hear Bo breathing hard, see her eyes glowing in the dark. Watching her. Her ears are ringing, hell, her _veins_ , even. And she can't get enough _breath_ , god it _hurts_. 

Without another word, Bo takes off, flees past Evony and leaves her on Kenzi's bed. Evony picks at the covers with her fingernails, buzzing, a bitter smile on her lips that she doesn't remember fixing there.


	9. Chapter 9

Dyson wakes up to the shrill of his phone’s alarm cramped as hell and _hungry_ —until he remembers yesterday. He looks through the broken boards over the windows, smells the air. Early, early morning. 

_Kenzi_. 

Downstairs is quiet; the only sound he hears is Lauren moving around. Did Bo fall asleep? He stands, slowly, joints shouting at him for the position he slept in, slips his hand like a whisper out of Tamsin's after a brief, soft squeeze, turns and straightens his jacket. 

"No one comes back from there, Dyson." Tamsin is awake, and she doesn't have to say where. 

Dyson half-turns to look at her. "That's why we're gonna go get her." 

Tamsin stares at him until it settles on her face, eyes wide and jaw set. 

//

"What's going on?" Dyson says slowly as he comes down and finds Lauren in the kitchen, face tight, looking at her phone. Evony's sprawled out on the couch comfortably, which is enough to make him nervous, but one look at Lauren and there's definitely something _wrong_. His eyes narrow and he can smell the panic in the room. "Where's Bo?"

Lauren looks up helplessly. "I don't know. Evony," she jerks her chin at the shape on the couch, "Said something to her last night, and she left and Trick went after her but no one knows where she went." 

"You sure she doesn't just need some time?" Dyson offers quietly, even though every muscle is pushing him towards that door and he was scenting for Bo the moment the words left Lauren's mouth. 

"I don't know, Dyson, but I would feel much better if she were with us. She was practically catatonic earlier, and I'm worried that she'll do something rash." She catches herself, closes her eyes. "-Er than usual. And with the Una Mens gone and the leader of the Dark functionally deposed and the acting Ash just _acting_ , I have no idea what the climate is like out there. And one misstep right now could mean everything." 

Dyson nods. "I'll find her." 

"Dyson." He turns back. Lot of that today. "Be safe." 

He nods. "You too, doc. Keep holdin' us down." 

//

The city's dense, easy to lose the scent in. Better than water, even. So many smells. 

Still. Dyson's had practice. And of course, Bo took off on foot. So she's not planning on going far. 

Or maybe she was. Planning's not exactly anyone's strong suit right now. 

But he starts to recognize the turns she's taken, and he thinks he knows where she's gone. 

Dyson slips in through the storefront; the lock they placed on the door leading downstairs yesterday is already broken. Down the stairs. Picks through the broken bits of carousel, towards the strengthening smell of rotting flesh. 

It's been less than twenty-four hours, but these bodies were already dead, and there's hundreds of them. 

Bo is easy to pick out, though. She's curled up right in front of the closed portal, closer to the rubble than the corpses. How she managed to _sleep_ , with the smell, Dyson can't even fathom, but maybe she's finally worn herself out. 

Well. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't really react when he says her name. Not at first. They're just fixed forward, on the pile of rubble. He follows her gaze, and then he sees the shape in the dust, almost where he's crouching. Vague, but it could be. Might be. That is almost where the doorway was. 

He touches her shoulder softly. "Bo." She blinks, slowly, but doesn't react otherwise, just focuses forward on that empty shape, that gap in the dirt. When she doesn't flinch, or swing, he settles his hand on her shoulder, warm, gentle. "Bo. There's nothing left here." 

There's a rustle behind him, and he spins. 

A crow is perched on the rubble, looking over the bodies. Except it’s far too big to be a crow; its eyes sheen red as it cocks its head, watching. Dyson growls, starts toward it—he never was partial to crows before, even less so now—but then he catches a scent and stops. 

Underfae. It’s just Underfae. No urgency, really. The energy of the portal must have drawn it in while the door was open. They're rare, but then, so is the apocalypse. 

He turns and lowers back down, keeps one ear cocked just in case. "Bo. She's gone." The words leave his mouth and cut, cut through him, through everything. They're surrounded by corpses. Bo blinks and looks at him blearily. _I'm sorry_. "It's time to go home." 

She raises one hand numbly to his forearm, and slowly, he helps her unfold. Brushes the dust off her jacket. She huddles under his shoulder and they walk slowly, so slowly, up the stairs and back into the city just as the sun is breaking over the skyline. 

Just before they get home, crack shack in sight, she starts shaking again. "I can't do it, Dyson." 

He tightens his arm around her. "You can. _We_ can. We've got you." 

"Kenzi—Dyson, _Kenzi_." 

He buries his face in her hair and fights it as he feels his face tightening, the ache rising in his throat. "I know. We'll get her back, Bo." He promises. 

"How can I do this without her?" 

"Not for long, Bo. It won't be for long. And we've got you." 

She turns her head in his arms and looks at the crack shack, the door, the sagging boards on the windows and the layers of paint all coming off in different colors where there's any left—

It really does look abandoned, now. 

//

Someone should probably go upstairs to check on Tamsin. _Lauren_ should probably go upstairs to check on Tamsin. 

Lauren kind of hopes she's still asleep. 

She's not. Figures. "Hey."

"Hey." 

"D'you... want something to eat? I figured since it's quieted down a little, I could, um, make... Something." 

"I'm... not really hungry. But thanks." 

"How are you doing?" Tamsin's face flashes through every possible emotion, and Lauren corrects herself. "I mean—your back. How's your back." 

"Fine," Tamsin replies quickly, then, after a moment, "Itchy." There's something painfully earnest in her expression. 

"Oh. I actually—I have something for that. If you want. Downstairs." Lauren points back out the door, like Tamsin doesn't know where the stairs are. 

"Um. Sure. That'd be nice." Tamsin's hands clench on the edges of the mattress. 

"I'llgogetit." Lauren lets out in a rush, then ducks out the door before Tamsin has a chance to insist otherwise and breathes a sigh of relief while she practically runs down the stairs. 

Talk about awkward first conversations. Why does it feel like they've never even interacted before? They've said... words... to each other. 

They say the first impression is everything; it's not like Tamsin's was a good one. But there's something in that look, when Tamsin was brand-new. Was vulnerable. 

It takes her a minute to find the thing she's looking for, but she finds it and goes back upstairs. Tamsin is flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling; she sits up again when she sees Lauren. 

"At ease." Lauren jokes. Tamsin's eyes widen for a moment before she laughs, softly, and some of the awkward eases out of the room. 

Lauren motions with one hand, and the awkward's back. "Your, uh, your shirt. Can you...?" It's funny; she's _done_ this professionally longer than she's been with the Fae. 

Tamsin takes off her shirt and turns around, and Lauren almost drops the tube of ointment. Yesterday, Lauren could see the muscle clearly through the gashes in Tamsin's skin. Today... 

There's two patchy scabs over angry red skin. It looks like the tail end of some road rash. She probably wouldn't even draw blood if she peeled the rest of them off. 

No wonder she's itchy. 

Tamsin pulls her hair over her shoulder and leans forward; wraps one arm around one knee and rests her chin there while Lauren squeezes some of the ointment out. "Sorry, this might be a little cold." 

Tamsin doesn't even react when Lauren touches her skin. Warm, and so soft where the skin is new; feverish, too. God, her metabolism must be _insane_. 

Lauren smoothes on a layer, then another, then works it in; another layer, until the scabs fill out and turn white around the edges, saturated. It's comforting, really; normal. Familiar. Helping. Isn't that what she's supposed to do? Til she sits back and looks Tamsin over. Tamsin shifts her shoulders, and Lauren can't see anything moving under the skin except muscle. 

Well. She does have really fantastic shoulders. 

Lauren clears her throat and shakes her head. Professional. None of this is professional, though; the apocalypse, Kenzi. The awful wrongness that's settled in the house overnight. "There. Better?" 

"Yeah." Tamsin reaches up and touches her shoulders, pulls her hand away, and Lauren thinks she makes a face. "Thanks." 

"Of course. You, um," Lauren takes stock of the bloodied bra straps, the stains on her shirt, "You might want a change of clothes." 

Tamsin nods. "I have some clothes in..." Her voice trails off. _Kenzi's room_. 

"Oh. D'you want me to get them?" 

Tamsin hesitates, then shakes her head. "Thank you, though." She says quietly. 

"Of course." It takes her a moment before she realizes she should leave. "I'll, uh, I'll be downstairs if you need anything." 

Tamsin nods. "Thanks, doc." Rote, automatic. That's her cue to leave. 

//

Lauren comes back downstairs just as Bo and Dyson come in. Bo doesn't quite look catatonic anymore, but now she looks broken. 

"Hey." Lauren says, softly. 

Bo looks at her like something's been torn out of her, and maybe that's not such a bad metaphor. Lauren crosses the space between the two of them and Bo just lets go of Dyson in time for Lauren to fold her up in her arms. Bo starts shaking again, the slow leak of tears starts against her face, but it's uncoordinated, like she's cried so much she doesn't quite remember how anymore. 

They stand there like that, Lauren's arms pressed into Dyson's chest, and slowly, Dyson's arms slide around them both. And it could be awkward—really, somehow _Dyson_ is more into hugging than Lauren is—but it becomes more and more apparent the longer they stay there that, even though this is safe and warm and it feels like the three of them come together like a single organism, they can't fix this. 

They really are amazing, the three of them. But they're nothing compared to Kenzi. 

Also, Bo must be getting dehydrated. 

"Can I get you two anything?" She asks into Bo's shoulder. "I kind of burned everything I put on the stove last night, and I haven't had a chance to make anything." 

"I'll go get us breakfast." Dyson says with a small smile. Lauren nods at him, and he throws a small salute and disappears out the door again. Lauren holds onto Bo even after that, wanting to move her, but afraid she might crumble if she does. 

Not two minutes later, she hears footsteps coming down the stairs. She cranes around to see Tamsin get to the bottom and freeze when she sees them. 

Bo stiffens against Lauren. Well, not _stiffens_ , not exactly. But something's not comfortable. 

Whatever it is, Tamsin seems to sense it, too. Her face falls, and falls, and Lauren's getting more and more useless by the moment. 

"Um, where'd Dyson go?" 

"Food." Lauren says. "Not sure where." 

"Right." Tamsin says. "I'll—I'll go, too." 

Lauren opens her mouth to tell Tamsin that Dyson’s already gone, but then she realizes that Tamsin probably already knows that. Not for the first time, she wonders what the hell she's holding in her arms. 

She guides Bo to the couch. Bo moves stiffly, and Lauren wonders where the hell she spent the night, because it looks like she didn't get any sleep at all. 

But she doesn't look much worse for wear. Thank god for small miracles. Lauren snags a blanket from somewhere and lays it over Bo before crawling under it next to her. 

Bo tucks her head into Lauren's shoulder, and very slowly, the shuddering eases, until Lauren knows she's fallen asleep. 

//

Lauren blinks awake to sunlight filtering through the holes in the boards over the windows. Bo is curled between her and the back of the couch, and Lauren's neck is stiff, so she gets up. Looks around the devastated kitchen. The towel. The wineglasses in the open cupboard. The wine rack someone—probably Dyson—jury-rigged, and the equally dubious but functional spice rack. Neatly organized. 

God, Kenzi is _everywhere_. 

And that goddamn clock, too; she can still see it, where it’s perched on the beer fridge. She almost forgot. 

Now would be the time. Evony’s asleep, and Bo—

She’d prepared herself for this. She even said goodbye already. Bo probably wouldn’t wake, but if she did—

She already knows what she’d say. _I’ll be back_ , she thinks, _in just a little bit_. 

It’s not a lie. Not if she can pull this off. 

There’s the shuffle of boots outside the door, the rattle of the handle. 

In her head, part of her waves goodbye to any chance she had. 

//

“How is she?” Lauren asks when Dyson comes back down stairs, quiet, familiar steps. 

“Exhausted.” He says softly, and he could be describing himself. 

“How are you?” 

He leans heavily on the counter and runs one hand through his hair. He makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Rather not think about it.” 

Lauren takes the bottle off the other counter, from where it’s sitting next to the sink. “Wanna drink about it?” She can’t hold in a little smile. 

He actually does manage a laugh, at that, short and halfhearted. Looks at the bottle and the amber color stirring inside it. Then he sighs and nods with a small smile, almost to himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I could do that.” 

Lauren pulls out two glasses, but doesn’t fill hers. She’s been looking back and forth between the doors and the windows in the quiet. Part of her feels trapped, pinned. But it’s just her and Dyson and the light in the bottle and glass clinking on glass. 

Dyson throws the first one back and brings his cup back down. Lauren looks a question at him; Dyson nods minutely. She passes him the bottle, and he refills his cup. Generously. This one’s gone in two gulps. 

He spins the third one in his glass, staring into it. Lauren takes the bottle and pours maybe an ounce into the bottom of it. Takes a good sip. Her eyes sting, but the burn is nice. Comforting. 

They don’t say anything; Lauren doesn’t prompt. Maybe one or two words. They just drink slowly. At some point, there’s a warmth in Lauren’s skin and she becomes acutely aware that she hasn’t _really_ slept going on forty-eight hours. 

As if to prove that hypothesis, she starts talking. 

“Dyson,” She blurts, “I think I need your help.” 

_fin_


End file.
